


Siblicide

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: The Burning Man Murders were the most bizarre serial crime in the city's history since those people who were all buried alive years ago.  Then the police investigating the crime spree then begin to find threads connecting the two...





	Siblicide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



Ramon was a bad guy.

But, Detective Murphy thought as knelt down next to the charred remains, he deserved better than this.  Ramon was curled up in a ball, fists tucked under his chin.  A “pugilistic attitude” was common for severely burnt individuals—muscles tensed and shortened at extreme temperatures, shrinking like any piece of meat on a grill.

Even though that was common, there was plenty of evidence that “Razor” Ramon had put up a fight; upturned tables, cracks in the drywall, the gold chain he had customarily around his neck had broken and was lying away from the body.  Ramon had put up a fight, but according to the eyewitness, not much of one.  The perp apparently had been gigantic and felt _nothing_.

“Gold chain on the ground—this wasn’t a robbery.” Detective Lewis said, more as a formality than anything.  This was the fourth Burning Man murder.  The victims were all burnt to a crisp.  Forensics still was at a loss to explain what the accelerant was.  Eyewitnesses couldn’t describe the killer beyond the fact that he was huge.

They were grasping at straws with this one.  Murphy did have a theory, which started in a mental asylum with a patient who he could find _no_ information on—no history, none of the doctors had any insight, he couldn’t even get a name.  Just that they had tried to keep the man from ever walking free.

They failed.

The asylum fire would have been impossible to connect to the burnt remains of Ramon, but threads could be found.  The highway patrol had found a wrecked long-haul trailer driven by a suspected smuggler and hitman, nicknamed Diesel.  When they tried tracking him down, they found nothing.

Until one of his associates, one of the strange bedfollows that made a weird clique, came to them and said that _something_ had come to him wearing Diesel’s leathers.  And the man’s _face_.  That man, had become the first known victim of the Burning Man.  Later, footage of the dive bar where the meet took place was unsurfaced, and there was an imposter Diesel.  A horrific, obvious imposter Diesel.

The second and third victims were missing all of their teeth, thought to be an attempt to make identification through dental records impossible.  Except the teeth were later found, in neat, geometric piles.  Murphy had started to believe that was because a local dentist… named _Yankem_ , had begun heavily advertising around the time the fire happened; although that was really just a gut feeling.

“Forensics have nothing.” Lewis declared, having stepped outside to talk to one of the technicians.  “Same as the others, no idea what set the fires, no idea who this guy really is.  Seriously Murphy, you have any idea where to go next?”

The Burning Man would strike again, that was a certainty.  The only questions were who, where, and when—they needed to find him as soon as possible.  Taking a deep breath, Murphy said “I think I may know a guy…”

* * *

“That’s _him_?”

“Yeah.” Murphy did not believe in the supernatural, in leprechauns and the boogie man.  There was a rational explanation to this case.  But it definitely had someone trying very hard to make it look supernatural.  On a hunch, he’d started trying to track down a name, which led to another, which led to another.  Murphy had to admit this was a wild goose chase when he had to talk to a friend in vice to learn his lead’s usual stomping grounds.

The Godfather was almost the platonic ideal of the pimp; in a colorful coat and matching wide-brimmed hat with a feather.  A far cry from his days on the illegal fight circuit as ‘Kama Mustafa, the Supreme Fightin’ Machine’.  And even further from the time he was wearing skull paint.  Honestly, watching him loudly talk about the quality of his ‘hos’, Murphy realized he was barking up the wrong tree if he hoped to gain any actual information from him.

With a sigh, he turned to Lewis and said “That’s him.”

With a big grin, she turned from Murphy to face the pimp, his workers, and his clientele across the street, and belted out “Hey, Papa Shango!”

That got a reaction.  The women looked curiously at their direction, and customers, upon seeing the badge Lewis was holding up, turned away and walked.  The Godfather practically jumped as he turned in their direction, eyes wide. 

“We just want to talk.” Murphy said, trying to salvage this.  “Come quietly or there will be trouble.”

The Godfather decided to bolt.

Nineteen seconds later, the Godfather was facedown on the sidewalk, Lewis pinning his arm behind his back. 

The Godfather was surprisingly abreast of the investigation; having heard rumors about what had happened to Ramon and Diesel and some others.  He hemmed and hawed for a while before claiming that he knew who the culprit was.  “It was The Undertaker’s brother.”

Lewis looked incredulously at Murphy.  The Undertaker Murders had plagued the city for years, a string of brutal homicides—victims beaten half to death, then buried alive.  There were even some crucifixions.  Murphy had been a rookie then, and remembered busting some members of a cult, the Ministry, who allegedly were tied to the murders; but grainy surveillance footage of the arrestees didn’t match the Undertaker, a tale, pale man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat.

“The Undertaker had a brother?” Murphy asked, face scrunching up.  “So, that means you know who the Undertaker is.”

The Godfather nodded.  “Mean Mark Callous.”

“Callaway.  Pull the other leg.” Lewis grumbled.  Mark Callaway, also known as “Mean” Mark Callous, was on their radar, had been for a while.  He was the leader of a biker gang, the Dead Men Motorcycle Club.  He was a violent thug, but a satanic killer?  That was preposterous.  Murphy shook his head, this was a wild goose chase.

Although… Mark Callaway was a giant, really tall.  Maybe as tall as the Undertaker was.  And the Dead Men only became a thing after the Undertaker Murders stopped.

The Godfather ranted some more, stating that like him, Mark had gotten tired of the supernatural, tried to reconnect with humanity.  So… the voodoo priest became a streetfighter and then a pimp, and the serial killer alleged to be undead became a biker?

More to humor him than anything else, Lewis asked “So where can we find the Undertaker’s brother?”

“There’s a funeral parlor!  Run by Paul Bearer!”  Papa KamaShangoFather was rambling now.  “Go there!  Now!”

Lewis shot Murphy a glance just dripped ‘you want to investigate a funeral parlor run by a man named pallbearer because an ex-voodoo priest told you to?’

Sighing Murphy shrugged and admitted “This is a waste of our time.”

* * *

“This is the place.” Lewis said, pulling the car to the curb and cutting the engine.  She shot a glance at Murphy before they both got out of the car.  She took a glance up at the sign; a few dozen crows staring down at her.

_Bearer’s Funeral Parlor._

Murphy and Lewis had reevaluated their opinion of The Godfather’s help when the call came in later that he was the next victim of the burning man.  Lewis had already reached out to everyone contact she had, from the Department of Corrections man who had heard no rumors about creepy magic nonsense to the Mountie who had the same opinion.  Following up with Bearer seemed to be the right idea, even if he couldn’t tell them anything, it would be better than sitting on their asses. 

Meager, flickering lights barely illuminated where they were going in the Parlor, abandoned and disused as it appeared.  Jars of _something_ in formaldehyde were prominently displayed alongside a selection of caskets covered in a fine layer of dust.  Murphy turned and called out “Hello?”

No reply.

“Place makes my flesh crawl.” Lewis said, looking at a web where a giant spider was slowly stalking a trapped fly.  “C’mon nobody’s here.”

Murphy shifted uneasily on his feet, but shook his head.

“Look, the freaky nonsense he was spouting is bullshit.” Lewis replied. 

“What about the eyewitnesses?  They said he was seven foot tall and just unstoppable.”

“Drugs.”

“Drugs.” Murphy repeated eyebrow cocked.

“I imagine if we had all of the witnesses take a piss test, the results would read like the contents of a pharmacy.” Lewis offered.  “And even if they’re right… the guy ignored pain.  PCP can do that.  Like the time with the…”

“Shockmaster.” Murphy completed her sentence.  That was Lewis’s favorite story from her days before she made detective.  Some retired tugboat captain went on a bad trip and started running through sheetrock and drywall, wearing a Star Wars helmet, purple glitter, and nothing else.  When the dozen cops managed to pin him down, he just kept babbling that he was the shockmaster.

“Yeah.”  Lewis said, annoyed he knew exactly where the conversation was going.  “Look, nobody’s home.  If Mister Bearer is…”

“Call me Paul.” Both practically jumped and turned at the sound of the third voice.  He had to have come from the rusty double doors opposite the entrance, but had made no sound until he spoke.  He was a large, heavyset man, pale like the belly of a fish.  When he spoke, it was in a falsetto that didn’t match his body.  “And welcome, my friends, to my funeral parlor.”

“Detective Murphy, and this is Detective Lewis” Murphy flashed his badge and approached.  He swallowed.  Did he want to talk about the burning man murders, or the escaped mental patient who was their one possible lead.  “We’re trying to find a man, and heard you might know something about him.”

“I know many people.  I get to know them quite well.” Bearer said, running a hand against a casket lid.  “But I suppose it would be Kane.”

“Kane?”

“Oh yessss…” He drew that out.  The man sounded like a demented cross between Hannibal Lector and Mickey Mouse.  “He escaped from that madhouse… said he killed his parents.  You see, I knew his mother and father, I used to work for them.  Knew them and their sons, one was a nice, sweet boy named Kane.  And his older brother, a punk named Mark.”

“Mark…” Murphy interrupted.  “You don’t mean…”

“The biker?  Yesss… he was the one who set the fire you know.” Bearer said, nodding slightly.  He walked over to a large, silver urn and ran a hand on the lid.  “Killed his parents and burned Kane up, made it so he couldn’t speak, couldn’t see out of one of his eyes.  He did it as part of a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Lewis asked.  The way he was talking, if it was the same Mark as the leader of the Deadman, he would only have been a kid at the time.  While Paul continued to focus on one of the urn, holding it appreciatively Lewis put a hand on his shoulder and asked “Who was this deal with?”

“The devil!” Bearer shouted, something rattling inside the urn.

* * *

“Bearer’s story…” Lewis said, tossing a stack of papers on Murphy’s desk. 

“Checks out?”

Lewis shrugged.  “There was a fire in a mortuary that orphaned two boys, one of whom was seriously scarred and institutionalized.  The other was in and out of juvenile hall repeatedly, eventually ending up in the custody of his parent’s old junior partner… Paul Bearer.”

“Why would he take someone he thinks was a patricidal arsonist under his wing?” Murphy asked.  The broad strokes of the story checked out, but Bearer was hiding things from him.  “A _satanic_ patricidal arsonist.”

“Because Bearer’s not exactly a saint himself.  Nothing managed to stick, but he’s been accused of everything from graverobbing to organ theft to connections to disappearances.” Lewis said, before flipping through the pile.  She pulled a printout of a newspaper article on Bearer, over a decade old, out and laid it on the desk.  Tapping the tall, muscular man dwarfing Bearer in the photograph, she asked “Look familiar?”

“It is Mark Calloway.  Younger, but it’s him.” Murphy nodded, skimming the article.  It was some odd human interest piece, discussing the mortician business; Paul was shown with his assistant Mark.  “So… the sketchy mortician ends up being the boss of the future king of the bikers.”

Something caught his eye.  It was just a stupid little piece of nomenclature in the caption.  Paul Bearer preferred the term ‘mortician’ to ‘funeral director’.  His assistant Mark preferred ‘Undertaker’. 

“I know what you’re looking at and no, I still think it’s bullshit.” Lewis repeated, tapping the paper.  “Still, we do have that at least—the man who escaped from the asylum was grievously burned, and is the brother of Mark Callous.”

“Think we should bring him in?”

“What, think that he’d sell out his sibling?”

“Well, if Bearer was speaking the truth, then Mark tried to kill his brother when they were kids.” Murphy said.  “And if the official investigation into the fire was true, then Kane burned down mommy and daddy and Mark barely got out.  I’m thinking brotherly love isn’t something to count on in this case.” 

* * *

They didn’t find Mark.  Pointed inquiries lead them to the conclusion that the Dead Man had just disappeared.  They cast a wide net and almost nobody was talking.  Until good ol’ J.R. wandered in from the desert, burnt to shit and babbling.

J.R. was the best source of information in the city.  Someone capable of getting dirt from anybody, who knew where the meetings were held, where the bodies were buried, and who was fighting who.  Despite this, pretty much everybody was his friend.  Cops valued the times he gave them a hint, Crooks valued all the times he kept their secrets, and somehow, he walked that tightrope with ease.

At least, that was the idea Murphy always had until they reached the hospital, where he was lying, bandaged up and with a morphine drip.  The monitor beeped intermittently.  “What happened?”

“It wasn’t a suburn.” J.R. said, coughing.  “There was a meet in the desert.  You’ve been lookin’ for Mark?  ‘Cause he’s dead.”

“Tell me about the meet.”

“I think it was a power play.  Mark and… The Boss.”

The Boss.  Perfectly legitimate businessman on the outside, jealous, back-stabbing, greedy psychopath under that veneer.  Allegedly had a hand in all of the crime in the city.  His name was the one thing that J.R. was not going to share.  Because if you crossed the boss, you had no chance in Hell.

“So… Mark, the Boss, and you?” Murphy asked.  “I imagine the conversation was scintillating.”

That earned a wheezing laugh.  “Some others were there, not important.  It was a trap for the Boss.  Mark beat the shit out of him and dragged him to a hole in the desert.  Said he was going to go ‘old school’.”

“Bury him alive?”

J.R. nodded.  “That’s when he showed up.”

“Who?” Murphy asked. 

“The guy who set me on fire!” J.R. said, the cardiac monitor picking up pace.  “I don’t remember much after that, just Mark getting tossed into the grave.”

“Please, you’ve got to…”

“Mark looked like he saw a ghost…”

And that was all J.R. had to say about that.  After a few more attempts to get him to talk about the incident, all Murphy could get was the location of the alleged meetup.  He wished J.R. well and headed out the door. 

* * *

“What the hell?” Detective Lewis asked, looking down at the whole in the ground.  Forensics were studying it.  She’d come to investigate the alleged sight of the meetup, maybe find the body of a certain biker thug.  They found some bloody clothing in the bottom of the hole, bandanna, leader jacket.  But no body. 

“There’s a lot of blood, some missing teeth.” One of the forensic techs said.  “Best we can figure it, a body was interred here, then moved.”

“Could he have been buried alive?” Lewis asked.  It was silly, to be chasing a decade old serial killer when investigating a current one.  But Murphy said that was what Mark Callous had intended to do to The Boss. 

“I’d need more time to determine that.” The tech shrugged.  “And it’d be easier to tell if we had the body.”

“What could’ve dug him out?” Lewis asked, lowering herself into the grave.  “Wild animal?”

The tech shook his head.  “Dug too deep.  An animal wouldn’t have gone through the effort.”

Lewis looked at the sides of the grave, frowning.  An animal couldn’t have dug him up, hell, even a person would’ve had trouble disinterring Mark with hand tools—if this really was the place Mark Callous was buried.  Then she noticed something.  “What are these grooves here?”

“I don’t…” The tech said, while Lewis studied the pattern.  Four parallel lines, closely spaced.  On a whim, she shifted her flashlight to her left hand and placed her right against some of the grooves.  Index on the leftmost groove, pinky on the furthest right.  The grooves were spaced wider than comfortable for her, but a large man, with large hands could've made those marks.

She dismissed the thought as soon as she had it.  Whole thing could’ve been a hoax, J.R. might’ve made it up to avoid pissing off the Burning Man or the Boss. 

Mark Callaway could not have clawed his way out of the grave. 

* * *

Murphy was screaming. 

They had returned to Bearer’s funeral parlor late and found it locked.  She had no idea why she suggested they enter without a warrant—not that they had anything they could get a warrant for—only that both of them were edgy about the case and knew that Bearer wasn’t telling the whole truth.  She picked the lock and they both went in.

They heard that insane falsetto tittering in the back room, and they both very slowly pushed one of the double doors open.  Bearer was rambling about who the Devil’s favorite demon was, and how Kane was doing a great job.  She pushed the door open a little further and caught her glimpse of Kane.

He was gigantic, maybe seven feet tall and heavily muscled.  Stringy, black hair covered a masked face, and he was wrapped up head to toe, except for one arm.  He stood like a statue while Bearer rattled on, about how ‘he’ had been a disappointment, had given up his rightful job to be a simple biker thug, and how Bearer was lucky that he had Kane now.

She and Murphy shot each other a glance, counted down from three, and burst into the room.  Bearer jumped like a startled cat, pretty spry for a big guy.  Kane just turned and tilted his head.  While Lewis was attempting to think of an exigent circumstance to justify the break-in, Murphy yelled “Your move, Creep.”

And then he burned.

She had no idea how he did, only that there was a fire.  She dove backwards, firing through eyes stung by smoke, and had to have tagged Kane.  Had to have.  Murphy was rolling on the ground while she got to her feet, with the big man stomping forward.

Then she was in the air, huge hand around her throat, kicking futilely. 

Somehow, Murphy managed to get to his feet and charge Kane, barely making him budge.  But the diversion was enough for Lewis to plant both feet on his chest and barely wrench herself free, flopping to the floor and gasping for breath. 

Bearer was rambling now, about how their souls were forfeit, giving a ranting speech while Kane tossed her and Murphy around the room like ragdolls.  She was a mess, ears ringing, head swimming, cut and bruised, and she was lucky compared to Murphy.  She tried calling for, but her radio was dead. 

Just when Kane loomed above her, and Bearer was ending his sermon with an “oh yesssss.”, the lights went out.  Even in the dimness of the funeral parlor, full darkness was unexpected.  After an uncomfortable eternity, a loud clang of a bell tolling rang out.  Once.  The second clanging happened after another eternity.

Lewis couldn’t remember where there was a church nearby, and it was a quarter to one; they wouldn’t have been ringing anyways.

The lights were back on, and now something else was looming over her, opposite Kane.  The world tilted off it’s axis around the man in a black longcoat, with a wide brimmed hat on.  Just like the old surveillance footage of the Undertaker.  Bearer was ranting while both figures stood stock still.

Then the man in black threw a right that knocked Kane back, and everything went to hell.  The room was icy as a tomb and hot as a crematorium.  The lights flickered between total darkness and blinding illumination.  And two behemoths slammed each other around, smashing through display caskets like they were paper. 

Lewis dragged Murphy out of the building, miraculously neither got trampled while Kane fought the newcomer, who either shed or lost his coat and hat in the fight.  After hauling Kane up by his throat and slamming him back down hard enough that she _felt_ the vibrations along the ground, the newcomer looked up at her.

Pale as a corpse, she still recognized Mark Callaway.

After that, there wasn’t much to say.  The funeral parlor was demolished, with no trace of Bearer, Kane, or the Undertaker being found.  Murphy was pronounced dead at the hospital they took him too, although for some reason his body was not released to his family.  The P.D. was, in response to increased crime, trying out some really strange technology, too.  Lewis gave some bullshit excuse for why they were inside the parlor, but left out the ghost and goblins. 

The idea that the demon-worshipping mortician had incited a murderous rivalry between the burn-scarred pyromaniac and his undead older brother was fucking ridiculous.

Even if she believed it now.

* * *

Forces were in motion.  While the city pretended to heal from the scars inflicted by Paul Bearer’s insane schemes, themselves part of a much larger plan, the door he had opened remained unclosed.  The definitive answer to the sibling rivalry still unanswered, other things had begun to slip in through the cracks.

And a voice cried out “WOOOO!”  I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

The voice cried out again “WOOOO!” And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.

The voice cried out again “WOOOO!” I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the center of the four living creatures saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; but do not damage the oil and the wine.

And the voice cried out one last time, for the last of the horsemen, “WOOOO!” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hell followed with him.  And he was Stylin’ and Profilin’.

**Author's Note:**

> This popped into my head a long while ago, a sort of smash-up of detective story and creepy occult thing. I think I could've handled both better, but am amused at the end result nonetheless.
> 
> I am still 110% amused at the notion that Robocop did appear in WCW, so technically he is a professional wrestling character. Hence our main characters.


End file.
